Cowardice
by Screaming Faeries
Summary: Draco was beginning to lose the will to carry on, during his sixth year. He was fed up of living a painful life - it wasn't fair that he had to pay the price of his parents mistakes. Warning: Suicidal Ideation. Written for the Hunger Games Trilogy challenge on HPFC. (Level: Hard) Prompt used: Foxface - write about someone in a situation who thinks death would be preferable.


**A.N: **Written for the Hunger Games challenge/competition on the HPFC. Prompt: Foxface – write about someone who is in a situation where they think that death would be preferable.

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oOo

It was late, when I had decided to take a late night trip out of the dungeons, to the boy's bathroom on the second floor. I was sick of being around the Slytherin Common Room, sick of Crabbe and Goyle begging to know what the task I was doing for the Dark Lord was, sick of drips like Pansy Parkinson hanging off my arm and my every word, treating me like I was some kind of hero. I wasn't a hero. I was a coward.

I looked at my reflection in the cracked mirror. Who was I? Who had I become? I had always been untrustworthy and unkind, but I never really assumed I could become a Death Eater. I rolled up my shirt sleeve and looked at the Dark Mark on my arm, and covered it back up quickly, feeling my stomach lurching at the sight of it. I hated the person I'd become. I was a wreck; a nervous, shaking wreck, terrified to do anything wrong or make any mistakes that would cost me the lives of my family.

My family…it was their fault that I was in this situation. Their mistakes, mainly my father, had cost me to become the one that the Dark Lord would choose to pick on. I had a hunch that Voldemort probably wanted me dead, eventually – a cost to my parents. I knew my mother cared greatly about me – she had made an unbreakable vow with Snape – but she didn't seem to have the backbone to stand up for me. My father definitely didn't seem to care. We were all a bunch of cowards, quivering and shivering under the Dark Lords cruel gaze, more so now that we seemed to be the object of his humour.

It wasn't fair. I shouldn't have been forced into this. I shouldn't have to pay the price for something that evolved before I was even born, something that really shouldn't have anything to do with me. But it was too late now; I was involved, and I had no way out. No one was going to help me – no one was going to complete the arduous task of killing Albus Dumbledore. They _wanted _me to do it; they expected me to do it, and fail. Which would result in my imminent death, and my mother and father would have to live with that for the rest of their pathetic, cowardly lives.

I hunched over the sink, gripping the porcelain with my fists. I hated my life right now. I hated how unfair this all was. I hated that I would have to do this task – while I didn't, and never had really admired Albus Dumbledore (my father had spent almost all my life criticizing his ways and plotting how he could next convince the board of governors to sign for his dismissal as Headmaster) – I still respected the man for what he was; a brilliant and magnificent wizard. I could never stand up against him – even if, somehow I managed to overpower the genius and have him at my mercy, I was sure I would never be able to will the courage to kill him, to end his life, watch the light leave his blue eyes...

…and it was imminent. I would fail to kill Dumbledore, and then the Dark Lord would make a show of killing me. I didn't want that. I didn't want to die at the hands of Lord Voldemort, for my father's stupid mistakes.

I turned my attention to my reflection again, feeling tears seeping down my face. I had cried so much already since coming to Hogwarts, but I always seemed to have more tears inside me for this tender subject. There were strong feelings and urges stirring inside me, something I had never considered before this year, but something that was becoming more and more of an option as time went on…

Killing myself would destroy my mother, embarrass my father. But I would no longer be on this plain – I wouldn't have to deal with the worries and pressures of this life. I would be free from Voldemort, free from my parent's mistake – completely, blissfully and utterly free. It would be much more preferable to be dead at this point, before I could even have a chance to be killed by the Dark Lord. I wanted to be free from this curse, desperately.

I kept staring at myself for a long while. I was a shadow of the person I used to be – paler, gaunt, my cheeks hollow and my eyes sunken in their sockets. I looked like death already – I _felt _dead. I craved that release. I reached into my pocket for my wand, wondering if I could aim _Avada Kedavra _at my reflection in the mirror, and it would bounce back and hit me squarely in the chest, ending my time on this world forever. I raised my wand, closing my eyes slowly.

Then I heard a noise somewhere behind me. My eyelids flew open again, and I saw a glint of round framed spectacles in the reflection of the glass. _Potter_. He was always skulking around, trying to catch a whiff of trouble, trying to be such a hero. I felt anger surging in the pit of my stomach, automatically linking all my troubles to him – blaming him. I spun around on my heel, and aimed a hex at Potter's feet.

He ducked behind the wall, and my hex bounced away. Before I could shoot another one at him, he jumped out from behind the wall. "_Sectumsempra!_" he yelled, aiming his wand at me. A jet of light seared out of the wand, and for the brief moment before the spell made contact with me, I wondered where on earth he had heard that spell – it wasn't one we'd ever learned in school. Then there was pain all over my body – white hot pain on my skin. I toppled to the ground, on my back, and whimpered. There were great, long tears in my skin, blood leaking from the wounds. The pain was unbearable.

I saw Harry Potter come towards me. He looked shocked at the sight of me, lying in a pool of water and blood. He gasped, and mumbled to himself. "No…no…"

"What's going on?" there was another voice, a voice I recognised as my head of house. Snape – he rushed in, and Potter backed up, and fled the scene instantly.

I was sure I was dying. I could almost feel the life force leaving my body as I lay there on the bathroom floor, staring up at the arched ceiling. I thanked Potter inwardly – he had ended this for me, my time was up. I would no longer have to face the task ahead – I had the freedom I was craving. But then Snape's hooked nose loomed into view, his greasy hair hanging over my face. I could hear him murmuring a spell, and I felt my wounds repairing; it felt as though they were sewing themselves back up. I wasn't going to die today, unfortunately.

I just had to accept that this was the path life had for me. Who was I to argue with fate – there was no way out.

oOo


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